


the wolves that bare their teeth

by plingo_kat



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Case Fic, M/M, or really for witcher... hunt fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:08:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26548024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plingo_kat/pseuds/plingo_kat
Summary: Geralt is enjoying semi-retirement in Corvo Bianco with Eskel when a hunt drops into his lap. And what’s this news about Empress Cirilla visiting Toussaint for an imperial survey?Geralt and Eskel drew their swords as something emerged from the shadows.“What,” said Geralt, “thefuckis that.”
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Comments: 27
Kudos: 162
Collections: Witcher Big Bang





	the wolves that bare their teeth

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to Chrissy ([inawasteland](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inawasteland) on AO3, [dieegohargreves](http://dieegohargreves.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr) for being my beta! You made this fic better with your edits for sure. <3

**o.**

Midway into the third winter Geralt spent at Corvo Bianco, Barnabas-Basil knocked politely on the door to his study.

“Yeah?” Geralt was in one of his rare reading moods, where he could perch by the window and devour two, even three tomes in one sitting. His current book was a treatise on the history of Aen Elle architecture, which he never would have thought he’d be interested in before skimming the summary.

“You have a guest, sir,” said Barnabas-Basil. “He introduced himself as the witcher Eskel.”

Geralt dropped the book and jerked to his feet. _”What?”_

He was already past the majordomo by the time he opened his mouth to reply, flinging open the front door and nearly hitting Eskel in the face. 

**i.**

“Oh, come on!” said Geralt. Eskel glanced up from his whetstone in time to catch the exasperated flick of his wrist that sent a sheaf of papers flying over his desk. He propped his chin on the pommel of his sword as he watched them flutter down.

“What?”

“It’s Henrietta.” Geralt leaned back in his chair, arms laced behind his neck. His shoulder popped and Geralt winced. “She wants us in court for… something.”

“You mean she wants _you_ in court.” Eskel was pretty sure most of Toussaint knew about the two semi-retired witchers living in the countryside, but only the White Wolf had fame and a knighthood. Although witchers were expected to spend their lives on the Path, Eskel was content to live quietly. Unlike Geralt, who even when trying to retire got caught up with duchesses and emperors and the end of the world.

“She asked for both of us,” said Geralt.

Eskel made a face. “Tell me we don’t have to dress up.”

“We probably do.” Geralt’s face descended into gloom. “But I try to show up in my normal armor anyway until somebody makes me change.”

Eskel snorted. “Good plan.”

“It’s worked before.”

“Hey, I’m not arguing.” Eskel raised his hands, clenching his sword between his knees. He really wasn’t. Human courtesies were just that -- for humans. Witchers observed them from a distance to fit in, but the rituals weren’t theirs. Not that he needed to explain that to Geralt, of course.

“Yeah, I know.” Geralt knuckled at his forehead, kneading the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “I just hate all the pomp and circumstance. And Henrietta hasn’t been all that pleased with me since the stuff with Detlaff.”

“Mm.” Eskel had his own opinions about how Geralt handled all that happened with the vampires, but he wasn’t the guy on the ground at the time. And Lambert yelled at Geralt already, so there wasn’t much left for Eskel to do.

“Maybe she’ll ask you to do the job,” Geralt continued, hopeful. “You know, as a neutral witcher.”

“Mm,” said Eskel again, this time much more skeptical. A noble -- a _royal_ \-- would never hire a normal witcher when there was a famous alternative.

“Shut up,” said Geralt. “Let a man dream.”

“Mm,” uttered Eskel for a third time, and then ducked as Geralt threw a book at his head. He laughed. “All right, I deserved that.”

“You always deserve it,” Geralt sniffed. But he settled in again at his desk, shuffling through the clutter. “Huh.”

“‘Huh’?”

“Letter from Ciri.” That was important enough for Eskel to get out of his chair and lean over Geralt’s head to see, one hand placed warm on Geralt’s shoulder.

Given that Ciri was now the leader of Nilfgaard the letter paper was of the highest quality, the ink a deep rich black. It was only one page long.

> _Dear Geralt & Eskel,_
> 
> _I hope this letter finds you well. In case you haven’t heard already, the Empire is conducting a survey of their vassals this year; we will be visiting Toussaint in the spring. I look forward to introducing Eskel to my Imperial Father, and to spending time with you again._
> 
> _Best Wishes,  
>  Her Imperial Highness, Empress Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon of Nilfgaard_
> 
> _P.S. Just send word for a day when you’ll be at home, I’ll hop over for a quick visit before all this pomp and circumstance._
> 
> _P.P.S. The signature is standard. Don’t make fun._

Eskel snorted as he finished reading. “How much do you want to bet Henrietta’s request is related to _that_?” He tapped the sentence about the survey of Nilfgaard’s vassal states.

“No bet.” Geralt leaned back in his chair, the back of his head coming to rest against Eskel’s stomach. “That’s not what we have to worry about, though.”

“Me meeting Emhyr?” Eskel shrugged. “I’m not the one who has problems with authority.”

“I don’t have problems with authority.”

“Name one royal you’ve met that you haven’t pissed off.”

A long pause. Geralt sulked in silence.

“Exactly,” said Eskel with satisfaction. Geralt sulked harder. “Ah, come on. You’ve always been like this. Like with Innio.”

“Innio hated me.”

“That’s because you were a little shit.”

“He picked on you.”

“He improved my signs. You know how training works, come on.” As witchers they didn’t have the luxury of being _nice_. Their instructors were harsh because they had to be in order to give young recruits a chance out on the Path. And besides, a seasoned witcher instructor like Innio would have known better than to get attached to any one boy. Not when there was a significant chance the boy would be dead within a couple of years.

“Hngh,” said Geralt. Monosyllabic noises meant he conceded the point but he wasn’t happy about it.

“So,” Eskel changed the subject. “Tell me about these court clothes. What should I expect?”

Geralt groaned.

*

Eskel had traveled all over the continent in his time on the Path, and consequently seen quite a few royal palaces and elaborate manor estates. But there was something charming about Beauclair’s palace in particular: the clean white stone and soaring arches, how the guards were stern but not surly, the rolling hills and picturesque mountains.

Henrietta looked the same at first glance, dressed in a beautiful gown that poofed out around her waist. As she descended the steps leading into the throne room he caught a glimpse of more practical leggings worn underneath.

“You really pissed her off, huh,” he murmured to Geralt. Henrietta was nearly stomping, her expression cold and remote.

“Her sister died,” Geralt murmured back. “It didn’t matter that she was a massive--”

“Geralt,” Henrietta’s voice rang out. “I am glad to see you.”

“Are you?” Geralt said subvocally, not moving his lips. Eskel snorted softly, more of a hard exhale than anything. Then: “Your Grace. You said you wanted to meet me?”

“Indeed.” Henrietta gestured. The guards and court hangers-on all melted away. “I assume your companion is the witcher Eskel.”

“That’s right, Your Grace,” said Eskel. He bowed before hooking his thumbs into his belt.

“Good.” It was a declaration. Nearly everything Henrietta said came out that way. “Perhaps two witchers may be more efficient than one. I have a job for you.”

“I guessed,” said Geralt dryly. Henrietta ignored him. “Got any information on what the job is, exactly?”

“Nothing specific,” Henrietta admitted. “But you require some background for this particular job. You both know that Toussaint is a vassal state of the Nilfgaardian empire?”

Eskel nodded along with Geralt.

“And I trust that you are aware of Empress Cirilla’s ascension to the throne. Well, traditionally the new Imperial leader takes a tour of their lands, to acquaint themselves with their subjects. Toussaint is set to be visited this spring.”

“And you want Nilfgaard to see that Toussaint is flourishing, with no out of control monsters,” said Geralt.

“Quite,” said Henrietta. “We have recently heard rumors of mysterious deaths in the Champs-Désolés. Men disappear never to be seen again. We have sent two knights to investigate, but neither have returned.”

“And what about--”

Henrietta held up a hand. “We have also sent a ducal squad to follow up on the investigation, but they too have vanished. A witcher is required.”

“All right,” Geralt sighed. “Do you have any more details than ‘it’s happening somewhere in all of eastern Toussaint?”

“Indeed.” Henrietta fished a folded piece of parchment from the folds of her dress. “This contains a map and all information we have about the disappearances… along with payment. If you wish to know more, speak to Captain De la Tour.”

“Your Grace,” Geralt bowed. He made it somehow respectful _and_ ironic, which Eskel admired even as he bent his own waist. Henrietta swept out of the room.

“Fuck,” Geralt swore as soon as she was out of earshot. “Damien. He hates my guts.”

“What a surprise,” Eskel said, straight-faced.

“Shut it.” Geralt’s glare was devoid of any heat. “He blames me for Henrietta’s sister.”

“How she died?” Eskel clarified, but didn’t need Geralt’s nod to know the answer to his own question. It wasn’t an unusual response. People got pissed when you weren’t fast or smart enough to save their loved ones. Hell, sometimes they got angry even when a witcher wasn’t even around yet for the killing. Grief made people irrational. “Then this will be fun.”

“As getting punched in the face,” Geralt agreed.

They set off to find Damien De la Tour.

*

Thankfully, Geralt didn’t get punched in the face. It was a close thing though and Eskel ribbed Geralt about it the whole ride back to Corvo Bianco.

It turned out that there were actually _two_ squads of soldiers sent to scout after the missing knights, and neither of them returned. Instead of throwing away another twenty men, Damien sucked up his dislike for Geralt and advised Henrietta to hire him.

“Two knights and twenty soldiers,” said Geralt, grim. “And each time they last sent a report was from the area around Mont Crane. An abandoned castle,” he added. “Cleared out some bandits there, when me and Henrietta were still on good terms.”

“And you didn’t notice anything strange while you were in the area?”

“Not really. Were a pair of slyzards nesting in the southeast. Killed ‘em on contract. Found some sort of smelting recipe a smith was hot for in Beauclair.”

“Hm,” said Eskel.

“There’s nothing out there but the quarry,” said Geralt. “Could take us weeks to search the surrounding area.”

“Don’t know about you.” Eskel slouched. “But I don’t fancy telling Ciri ‘sorry, not sure when I’ll be free from contract.’”

“Hng,” said Geralt. “Maybe we can tell her where we plan to camp. Mail to Nilfgaard is fast from here, we shouldn’t be too far off trail by the time she gets it.”

“You think she’d want to join us?”

“She’s got to be sick of the imperial court by now.” Geralt shrugged. “Could do her good to camp out a few days.”

“If you say so.” Eskel thought it more likely that Geralt missed his daughter, but he wasn’t going to say anything. He wouldn’t mind Ciri joining them for a hunt either.

Geralt drafted and posted his reply to Ciri before they headed back to Corvo Bianco, where both he and Eskel checked over their gear. Geralt even packed away a copy of a Toussaint map, meticulously copied from a surveyor’s draft.

“Fancy,” said Eskel.

“Didn’t you know?” Geralt raised an eyebrow, voice completely uninflected. “I’m rich now.”

Eskel laughed.

*

That night, after Geralt told Marlene and Barnabas-Basil about their plans for the next couple days -- or weeks -- the two of them went to bed. They’d gotten into the habit of sleeping together secure in the easy knowledge that they’d see each other whole and hale in the morning. A job shook that certainty up, made them a little frantic, a little tender. Eskel gripped the short tail of Geralt’s silver hair tight as he sucked his cock slow and deep, savoring, and pressed his pinky to the thin skin under Geralt’s jaw to feel the thud of his pulse. After he came Geralt jerked himself off over Eskel’s abdomen and thighs to stake his claim, growling as Eskel arched to show off the curve of his ribs and waist, the muscle of his arms and shoulders, before licking Eskel clean. They rolled under the covers, content.

The next morning they set off just as the sun was cresting the horizon, washing the sky in brilliant pinks and oranges. Marlene had left them a veritable feast for breakfast: bread and fruit and thinly cut meat, and they ate as they rode.

Toussaint generally had well maintained roads so they made good time, but every now and then they came across small groups of workers repaving, or filling in holes, or whatever it was people did to keep the path looking nice. The people thinned out as they approached Ardaiso.

“That’s kind of strange,” said Geralt.

“Mm?”

“No shipments from the quarry.” Geralt cast his gaze around. “Last time I was up here they were carting around tons of stuff.”

“Could be they’re huddled up ‘cause of the monster.”

“Maybe,” Geralt conceded. He still insisted on stopping by to check on the quarry workers, who indeed were holed up in their lodgings.

“We were the first casualties,” said the foreman grimly. “Couple of lads went out hunting, never came back. That’s not _too_ unusual, but then Merrick got staked up. No human did that, no doubt about it.”

“Staked up?” Eskel exchanged a glance with Geralt. “That wasn’t in the report.”

“We got him down and buried already, but Albin here ought to be able to show you where we found him.”

“I’ll go with,” volunteered another man. “Claude, at your service, lordships.”

“We’re just witchers,” Geralt corrected him. “No ‘your lordship’ or ‘ser’ necessary.”

“‘Course, ser,” said Claude, bobbing his head in an aborted bow. Geralt sighed.

Eskel had to grin. “All right, let’s get going. The sooner you show us the site, the sooner we can solve your problem.”

The foreman waved them off with relief. Albin and Claude had no mounts so the two witchers led Roach and Scorpion by the reins as they trailed the two men down a small dirt path. The humans were visibly tense, looking around warily at every noise, and moved slowly enough that if Eskel were by himself he would have long urged them on. But with Geralt there to distract him -- a small hand sign game, nothing that took away awareness of their surroundings -- he was content to follow at their pace.

“Here,” Albin said eventually.

He pointed at a twinned tree that split into two trunks about a foot off the ground, a short ways off the path. The tree’s base had signs of trauma, but if there had been any blood on the forest floor it wasn’t visible to the naked eye.

“Were you the one to find him?”

“Yes.” Albin shifted his weight, eyes scanning the trees. “He was impaled, like, through his chest. Kind of kneeling. And the carrion eaters had gotten to him too. It was -- it was ugly.”

“Hm. And did you see any other wounds? Did it look like he’d been attacked?”

“I couldn’t tell.” Albin was sweating now, still scanning the treeline. Claude also stood tense and ready. “I saw him and ran. We got him down the next day, but none of us is any sort of doctor, sers. He was dead and it wasn’t any kind of hunting accident. That’s all we could figure.”

They asked a couple more questions, but the men didn’t have much more information to give. The body was found three weeks ago. It was the only one staked up. Nobody knew what happened to the rest, including the squads of Ducal soldiers. Yes, the two squads passed through the quarry, but they didn’t know what happened to them afterwards. No, nobody had died since they stopped venturing east of the quarry, particularly at night. And they barricaded themselves in. And they never went anywhere alone.

“Good,” said Eskel. “Keep up those precautions. We’ll see what we can find.”

“Thanks,” added Geralt. He waved the two of them off before turning back to Eskel. “Three weeks. Trail will’ve gone cold.”

“Yeah.” Eskel sighed. He draped Scorpion’s reins over his pommel and patted his neck. “Stay here, boy.”

“Good girl, Roach.” Geralt did the same.

“Man was impaled here, obviously.” Eskel gestured at the small spear of wood coming out of the tree. It looked as if it tried to grow a large, low branch at waist height, but something had broken it off. The wood was pale on the inside.

Geralt leaned in and picked at the bark, rubbing his fingers together before sniffing them. “Traces of blood.”

“So then…” Eskel measured. “Knees here, feet here. If he was still alive when he was speared, blood splatter would be _that_ way.”

“And if he were already dead, it’d be here.”

They went to observe their chosen spots. There had been multiple rain and snowfalls in the past three weeks, so Eskel didn’t have high hopes. His expectations didn’t go unmet. He found nothing, not even marks of scavengers when he shifted through the forest detritus.

Just in case, he scouted a wider area. Vesemir had beaten that into them; you were never as smart as you thought you were. There was nothing unusual for a patch of forest off of a game trail. No convenient monster prints or unnatural scents.

“Anything?” Geralt was kneeling, head cocked at the angle which meant he was thinking hard. He’d done it since they were kids at Kaer Morhen. It made him look like he was listening intently, and with the frown of concentration that often went with the posture he’d fooled several instructors into believing he was paying attention when he definitely wasn’t.

“Mm.” Geralt held out his hand. Eskel leaned down and sniffed: the leather of his gloves, horse sweat, moist soil, and the copper tang of blood.

“So, probably alive or not long dead when he got speared, if he bled enough for it to stick around. No claw marks on the trees. They didn’t say he was eaten or mutilated much either, except for carrion birds. Around here… crows and the occasional eagle, probably.”

Eskel sat back on his heels with a sigh. “Could be pretty much anything.”

“Mm.” Geralt’s mouth twisted. “We’ll need to keep searching. There was one body here. More than twenty men have gone missing, there must be more.”

“Mont Crane next, right?”

“Yeah.”

They mounted up. 

There was no trace of any foul play on their way to Mont Crane, which was almost as suspicious as finding something specific. Out here in the wild they should have encountered _something_ \-- some archespores, a nest of echinops, the occasional necrophage. Instead there was only the natural wildlife.

“Were you really thorough last time you came through?”

“Hm,” Geralt hummed. “No more than usual.”

Eskel made his own thoughtful noise. Geralt was more conscientious than most witchers, and would dispatch monsters along his travel route even without a contract. But even he didn’t do a purge of an area like this unless there was something in it for him.

Suspicious.

Well, there was nothing they could do about a _lack_ of monsters. Eskel settled himself more comfortably in the saddle and scanned the horizon. Maybe they’d get lucky and a dracolizard would descend from the sky with a corpse in its claws.

(Three hours later he sighed, munching on trail rations. Maybe he ought to just take a nap as he rode.)

*

Mont Crane was deserted as Geralt said it would be. The pyre where Geralt had burned the bandits was still a huge scorch mark in the middle of the courtyard.

“Really?” said Eskel. “Right by the gate?”

“It’s an _abandoned_ castle,” said Geralt. “I didn’t think it would matter where I made the pyre.”

“You’re such a dumbass.” Eskel shook his head.

They took shelter in one of the less blood-spattered guardhouses. Roach and Scorpion got places of honor in the completely blood-free stables.

“Think Ciri will make it tonight?”

Geralt sucked on his cheek. “Nah. Maybe tomorrow morning or the night after.”

Eskel grunted acknowledgement. They scrounged up a whole cooking pot and made real hot food, pheasant meat stew with wild spinach and onions, and ate their fill. No use scouting as the sun went down; they needed a better idea of what they were looking for before wandering blindly into the forest.

Two witchers meant that one of them got the luxury of sleep. Eskel laid in his bedroll and listened to the crackle of the fire and Geralt’s even breathing until he fell into the dark, and dreamed.

_It’s summer shading into fall, and the mountains are heavy with end of season thunderstorms. He and Geralt go out to forage and practice their tracking skills, following the trail of a deer up higher up the slopes. The wood is alternatingly dense and open as the trail winds steeply upward, weaving around fallen trunks and tumbles of boulders. They nearly lose it in a shallow pond of greenish water, only picking it up on the other side by luck. By the time they make it to a small grassy plain around the mountain lake Eskel is out of breath. Geralt fares better, but not by much._

_The deer is there, walking gracefully along the shelf of stone around the lake’s edge. He and Geralt watch as it bends down to drink: the slow, stately bob of its head, the wreath of antlers reflected against the sky. They wait until it disappears into a nearby copse of trees before venturing over to the lake themselves._

_Eskel swings his rucksack off his shoulders. There’s not much there: some acorns, various plants that are useful in teas or potions but not for lunch, and a snake they killed with a rock. Geralt’s bag is much the same._

_“Lucky us,” Eskel says, grinning and throwing his hand out toward the lake. “We can have fish for lunch.”_

_“Instead of snake?” Geralt punches him in the shoulder. “What, you a picky eater now?”_

_“Oh yeah,” says Eskel, and adopts a nasal drawl. “According to the rules of etiquette pork hindquarters are never to be served after a bowl of asskissing in a noble household--”_

_Geralt snorts out a laugh. “Better not let old master Warrick hear you misquote Bihrmingtom like that.”_

_“Learning etiquette’s stupid,” says Eskel, scouting around for something that will make good fishing line. He finds some tough-looking weeds and gets to work braiding them together. By unspoken agreement Geralt is taking care of the hook and rod. “We’re not going to need it when we’re witchers.”_

_“Dunno, you could be contracted by a king or something. Get a knighthood. Marry a princess--”_

_“You’re the one who wants to marry a princess,” scoffs Eskel._

_“No, I don’t. Hey, you know who wants to marry a princess? Verrick.”_

_“Oh shit, you’re right,” Eskel gasps. “He wants to marry a princess and become, uh, a--”_

_“--a guy who dresses in tights and fights with a fencing sword--”_

_“--and plays a lute--”_

_“--and spends hours and hours in the washroom every morning doing his hair.”_

_“Yeah.” Eskel hands over the completed fishing line. “He can’t actually be doing his hair whenever he sneaks in there.”_

_“Well…” Geralt winds the line around his hook and makeshift rod, overturning a couple of rocks to search for bugs. He finds a worm and baits the hook with it. “I heard him crying, once.”_

_“Oh.” That’s more depressing than Eskel wants to deal with. Besides, they all cry sometimes. “He’s going to die in the Trial of the Grasses, you know.”_

_“I know.” Geralt looks up at him with cat-yellow eyes, sunlight glinting off his bright hair. “Are you going to cook this fish or not?”_

_“‘Course I am.” Eskel focuses and shapes the Igni sign, lighting their little campfire. The fish is spitted on a stick and held over the flames. “You know, I don’t think we’re going to find any monsters around this lake.”_

_Geralt nods as if this conversational segue makes sense. “The water’s too pure for Nekkers.”_

_“And the deer would have died.”_

_Geralt frowns. “What deer?”_

_“The deer we were tracking. Remember?”_

_“Deer don’t live this far up on the mountain, Eskel.”_

_“What? They do, we followed it up here.”_

_“No, we were following the trail of a werewolf.”_

_“We weren’t. It was a deer.”_

_“Eskel, are you all right?”_

_Somehow the small copse of trees by the lake is now a forest, deep and dense and cold. Thunder rumbles without lightning._

_“Damn.” Geralt looks up and sighs. The two hilts of his swords peek over his shoulder. “Storm’s coming.”_

_“That’s… not right…”_

_The fish is done. Eskel takes it off the fire, but he’s too unnerved to eat. He wishes he had his swords. How come he doesn’t have his swords?_

_Another crack and rumble. This time light flashes a solid ten seconds after the sound._

_“Storm’s getting closer.”_

_So are the trees. They’re not by a lake anymore; the forest is dense enough he can barely see the sky. The air is dull and grey. A crow caws._

_“Where’s your sword?” Geralt doesn’t sound angry, just calm. Eskel looks up and meets his cool yellow gaze._

_“I’m not sure.”_

_“You’ll need it.”_

_“I know.”_

_“So where is it?”_

_For all that Eskel feels like he’s falling into Geralt’s eyes, he still sees the shadow behind his back._

_“Wolf--”_

_Branches burst through Geralt’s chest, spreading open his ribs and bringing him to his knees. His heart is exposed by a cage of gore-covered wood shaped like antlers. Geralt coughs blood, his eyes fever bright, pupils thin vertical slits with the pain._

_**“Where’s your sword, wolf?”** _

_Eskel howls. He doesn’t know._

He woke silently, teeth gritted and sweating. The night was quiet with the normal sound of wildlife, bugs and the soft rustle of nocturnal animals, the nearly silent sweep of an owl’s wings. Geralt’s heart thudded its slow rhythm several feet away where he was kneeling in meditation.

Eskel got up and stretched. Geralt’s eyes flicked open, a pale yellow gleam, there and gone. They knew each other well enough that he didn’t have to ask what woke Eskel from his slumber.

He went out to take a leak. The sky was clear after the past few days of rain, only faint wisps of clouds flirting with the waxing edge of the moon’s shining curve, and he spent some time standing there watching them move slowly overhead.

What kind of monster liked to kill by staking their victims up on trees? And didn’t eat them?

The obvious answer was a leshen, but that didn’t make sense in such a sparse forest. They were old monsters who loved old, dense woods. Toussaint was ancient ground, close to where the Conjunction occurred however many hundreds of years ago, but the forests here were… shallow. Sunlit. Perhaps not _friendly_ , but not full of the wild hostility leshen preferred. 

All right. Perhaps a werewolf. Sometimes they played with prey: for amusement, for spite. They would have the strength to impale the man on the tree. But no claw marks? And the man had been spitted fairly low to the ground as well. Werewolves were _big_. It didn’t really make sense.

Then there was what Toussaint was known for, at least by Geralt: vampires. A higher order vampire would be sadistic and careful enough to display a corpse like a piece of art and disappear two squads of ducal soldiers. But higher vampires were _intelligent_. There was no reason for the violence, the display. And there was nothing out here. If a vampire wanted to feed on humans, they would be closer to a population center.

Eskel hissed through his teeth. It didn’t make sense. They were missing something.

“Wolf.” Eskel couldn’t stop the tiny flinch of his shoulders. Not after the dream he had. Geralt stepped up beside him and leaned so their arms lined up, touching from shoulder to elbow. “You know what cures bad dreams?”

“Not sleeping?” Eskel asked drily.

“Sure.” Geralt shrugged. “You can have fun not sleeping, you know.”

“Is that an invitation?”

“You want it to be?”

Their breaths plumed in the cold night air. Eskel turned his head, eyes focused not on Geralt but the space behind him so that his profile was a blur, the blade of his nose a curved smear, the silver of his stubble a field of stars. He breathed in deep.

“Yeah,” he said after a long moment. “Yeah, I want it to be.”

They walked back to the guard barracks hand in hand. Geralt pressed him back onto his bedroll laid out on the guard bunk, mouth working over his in an easy kiss. He licked the gnarled knot of scar tissue that twisted Eskel’s face into a permanent sneer, pushing in to allow Eskel’s canine to scrape over the give of his tongue. They kissed until they were both hard in their trousers.

It was late, and neither of them were in the mood for anything too complicated. Geralt bit Eskel’s lower lip gently and withdrew to grab the jar of slippery ointment from his pack. They unlaced their trousers and pushed them down to midthigh; Geralt straddled his hips and his hand disappeared behind his back.

Eskel ghosted his fingers down Geralt’s spine underneath his shirt, feeling the raised ropey scars from beast claws and steel, the waxy patch of skin from a major burn. Geralt had two fingers inside already, he realized as he pressed lower, tracing the slick hot entrance of his body. He pushed tentatively.

“Don’t,” said Geralt, a frown of concentration on his face. Eskel snorted and let his hand drift to grasp Geralt’s hip.

Geralt’s cock bobbed against his belly, flushed prettily at the tip. He hated it when Eskel described him like he was dainty or delicate, except when he got _really_ into it, moaning as Eskel whispered filthy praise in his ear -- but he really was, all pale except for the dark ropes of his scars and the soft pink flush that rose up under his skin. One time he’d left to sleep in his own bed entirely when Eskel got it into his head to tease. That was a rough night.

Now Eskel was too unsettled to risk Geralt moving away. He hissed as Geralt took his hand out from behind his back and grasped his cock, oiling it up before positioning himself over it.

Eskel nodded. Then he had to close his eyes as Geralt lowered himself. He wasn’t going to last, but that wasn’t the point of this so it was all right to let go. He clutched at Geralt’s hips as he rode him slow and deep, grinding up as Geralt pressed down, until he came in slow pulses. Their fingers tangled together around Geralt’s cock as they stroked him off together.

“...Damn,” said Geralt afterward. “Didn’t bring anything for the mess.”

“Your shirt,” suggested Eskel lazily. Geralt glared at him. 

“What?” said Eskel. “It’s already dirty.”

That was true. Geralt had mostly spilled over their fists, but some had splashed onto the tail ends of his shirt.

“Ugh,” said Geralt. “Fine.” He wiped down their hands first, then got up and cleaned off the rest of himself. Eskel stared up at the ceiling.

“Think you can sleep?”

“Doubt it.”

“Then you can wash this.” Geralt threw his shirt at Eskel’s head.

“Hey!” Eskel sat up and caught the cloth before it could hit his face. “Wash your own shirt.”

“It’s your fault it’s dirty.”

Eskel… couldn’t really argue with that. He shrugged and stood.

“You think this place has a washing room?”

“It’s an abandoned castle,” said Geralt, long-suffering.

“Which had bandits living in it,” Eskel pointed out. “They must have washed their clothes.”

Both he and Geralt contemplated some of the bandits they’d seen. And smelled.

“I mean,” said Eskel. “Probably.”

Geralt laughed, which meant Eskel won. He strode out of the guardhouse with a light heart.

**ii.**

Dawn broke cold and clear. As they cooked a leisurely breakfast, a blaze of green fire lit up the ramparts.

“Hello!” Ciri called. “Anybody home?”

“You’re up early,” Geralt called back.

Ciri blinked into their camp with a green flare, hands on her hips with her feet shoulder width apart. “I’ll have you know that as an empress I get up before dawn most days.”

“Really? Because I recall some girl who always had to be woken up for morning training…”

“I was eight!”

“We traveled together for months once you grew up, and I don’t remember you ever getting up until breakfast was already cooking.”

“Well.” Ciri dropped her arms and grinned. “That’s true.”

“Aha,” Geralt pointed. “You admit it.”

“I was just being efficient.” Ciri turned her nose up. “You’re a better cook.”

“I see how it is,” said Geralt. “Come here.”

Ciri flew into his arms, laughing as they hugged. Geralt let her go after he pressed a kiss into her hair.

“Hello, Eskel,” she grinned at him. He smiled back and accepted his own hug. “It’s good to see you.”

“Good to see you too, cub.” Eskel drank her in: well-made traveling clothes, leather bracers with a stamped mark of the Black Sun, a high quality sword, the obvious health of her clear skin and fit figure. “I see you’ve been keeping up with exercise, at least.”

“Being empress isn’t only a desk job, you know. I go out and survey things. Spend time in the training salle. And,” she winked, “if I get really bored I can always portal to have a quick adventure.”

“No adventure,” said Geralt firmly. “I don’t want to deal with whatever assassins Emhyr would hire if he found out I brought you along on a monster hunt.”

“Emhyr wouldn’t send assassins after you.” Ciri rolled her eyes. “He knows you don’t like killing humans.”

Geralt had told him about his encounters with Emhyr var Emreis, of course, but not that they’d been so close. He’s curious, but it’s something to nag Geralt about later, when the man’s daughter isn’t with them.

“Pull up a crate,” Eskel urged. Geralt and Eskel had set up a small fire in a corner of the courtyard sheltered from the wind. They hadn’t found any intact benches, and so resorted to using a couple of discarded wooden crates as stools.

Ciri hooked her foot around one and dragged it over.

“So,” Geralt raised a silver eyebrow. “What’s this about a parade?”

“Not a parade,” Ciri corrected. “It’s a _survey_.”

Geralt raised his other eyebrow.

“All right, it’s a bit of a parade.” Ciri rolled her eyes. “Apparently it’s something Nilfgaard rulers tend to do when they take the imperial seat. Gets them acquainted with who they’re going to be in charge of. Also it conveniently makes any fat-pursed kingdoms pay for the privilege, which reduces funds for any rebellions that might come about during the transition of power.”

“Regretting not running away to hunt monsters with me yet?”

“Oh, as soon as I said yes to the throne,” said Ciri. She sobered. “But really, I’m doing well. Emhyr is teaching me so _much_ , and I know I can make a real difference as empress.”

“I know you can too,” said Geralt softly. “You’ve already saved the world. Now you can change it.”

“My story, right?” Ciri smiled.

“It’s just begun.” Geralt nodded. “They won’t know what hit them.”

Ciri held his gaze for a moment before she clapped her hands together. “All right, so what monster are you hunting? Have you figured it out yet?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Eskel answered. He explained the possibilities he thought of last night. Geralt added another: some sort of curse on the land.

“Although that’s not really likely,” he admitted. “Our medallions ought to have picked up magic strong enough to kill off two squads of ducal soldiers.”

“And it’d be a pain to break a curse,” Eskel agreed. “Figuring out the conditions alone, given that we know almost nothing…”

“Sounds tough.” Ciri sighed, her breath coming out in a white plume as she tipped her chin up toward the sky. “I wish I could help, but I’m due back for morning meetings soon.”

“Come visit again tomorrow,” Eskel suggested. “We’ll try to return before dawn if we don’t find a lead. We can spar and see how rusty you’ve gotten.”

“Oh, I see how it is,” Ciri said with a laugh. “Be careful that you don’t eat your words, master witcher! You haven’t sparred with me since I came into the power of the Elder Blood. Maybe I’ll beat _you_.”

“She might,” Geralt smirked. “She can sometimes even best me with her teleportation trick.”

“If I remember right, I was the one who won our last spar,” said Eskel. “So don’t go counting me out yet, not like your old man here.”

“Who are you calling old?” Geralt protested. “We’re the same age.”

“It’s a state of mind,” said Eskel.

“I’ll show you ‘state of mind,’” Geralt threatened. “Come on. Warm up spar.”

“Ohhh,” Eskel drew out the sound. “Fighting words.”

The two of them grinned. Ciri laughed and clapped, just like she did when she stood only as high at their hips and got the chance to watch them practice.

They pulled their steel blades free and stood facing each other a lunge-length apart.

“Ready?” said Ciri. “Set, go!”

Geralt moved first in a quick feint along Eskel’s left, trying to fake him out to flank him against the mess of overturned barrels nearby. Eskel dodged and struck back, a quick parry of blades that ended with their swords reversed and braced against their forearms. They disengaged with a whirl and reset their stances.

This time Eskel tripped Geralt with a localized Yrden in the middle of a sidestep; Geralt ducked and staggered him with a wide Aard as he recovered. They both cast Quen and Igni in quick succession, sparks reflecting off their blades and armor in rippling curtains. Geralt switched to a two-handed grip for a series of brutal hammers against Eskel’s guard, driving him back as he deflected the brunt of the strikes until he twisted his blade _just_ so and was able to throw off Geralt’s next swing enough to punch at his wrist. Geralt’s hand spasmed and he caught his blade backhanded before it could drop, whipping it around to narrowly miss Eskel’s thigh.

They circled each other warily.

“Getting slow,” said Eskel. He knew that he looked intimidating to any stranger, especially when he smiled as he was right then. The scars along his face twisted and rippled, and his ruined lip drew back further to expose his teeth in an unintentional snarl. To Geralt, he probably looked as he was: like he was having fun.

“Arrogance is a state of mind,” Geralt said, and stabbed. Eskel sidestepped without moving his blade.

“Slowness is a sign of age.”

Geralt growled, playful, and moved in for a dancing flurry of thrusts and swipes, the two of them all but running the length of the courtyard as they volleyed back and forth. In the end Eskel missed a tricky feint, little more than a twitch of Geralt’s eyes implying a strike that never came, and Geralt slid the point of his sword up along the side of Eskel’s jaw. They were both breathing fast.

“Bravo!” Ciri cheered and clapped. They broke apart and sheathed their blades, turning toward her. 

Somehow she’d picked a scraggly bouquet of flowers, possibly by teleporting out past the walls while they were distracted. She handed Geralt the clump of arenaria and celandine and blowball, surrounded by the prickly greens of weeds, with a courtly and elaborate bow. Geralt took it and bowed back.

“The Nilfgaardian delegation is due in Beauclair at the end of the month,” she said. “Don't forget.”

“We won’t,” Geralt promised.

“All right.” Ciri offered the both of them another hug. “I’ve got to head back. See you tomorrow, hopefully!”

The two of them had barely raised their hands in farewell before she disappeared.

“Handy,” Eskel said appreciatively. “Better than portals, even.”

“I don’t know about that,” Geralt winced.

“Really? You’ve tried it?”

“Not Ciri’s, exactly, but there were natural rifts between worlds. Had to go through some with all the Wild Hunt mess. I told you about that before.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t say much about the portals. I thought you would have bitched more.”

“They were _portals_. They felt like portals. It was terrible. What more is there to say?”

“I guess,” Eskel relented. “But not all of us hate instant travel, you know. Teleportation would be a useful trick.”

“If we could manage it, sure,” Geralt shrugged.

“And that’s the problem,” Eskel agreed. “So. That bouquet you’re holding. You gonna do anything with it?”

“Why? Jealous?”

“No, I’m just imagining you whipping it out instead of your sword when we run into a slyzard or something.”

Geralt snorted. “I’ll keep the potion ingredients, toss the rest. Ciri won’t mind.”

“Uh huh,” said Eskel. He’d seen the little drawer full of trinkets and useless baubles Geralt kept from the kids on the estate, gifted to him with shy, gap-toothed smiles. He wouldn’t be surprised if a couple of dried flowers appeared on the wall of his room when they got back.

He didn’t push it, though. Geralt got embarrassed easily. It was an endearing quality.

Instead they packed up their small camp, leaving most of their supplies, and got ready to head out. Monte Crane stayed their base; they scouted outwards in an expanding spiral, a hundred meters apart to cover more ground. It was late afternoon by the time they found a trail.

Eskel was on the outer edge of the spiral, so he was the one to spot the scrap of leather tucked into a hollow at the base of a tree. He whistled the pause signal and checked it out. It was a boot with blood on it.

He whistled again, this time a high-low-high flute that told Geralt he found something. As Geralt ghosted up beside him he unearthed another boot, this one of a different size.

“Guess _something_ happened here,” Geralt said. Eskel nodded with a boot in each hand.

There were no bodies, no bones, and no sign of a struggle. After some more focused searching they came across an abandoned camp. It looked overgrown, as if the inhabitants had been gone for months instead of days or weeks, full of half-buried crockery and tents covered with greenery. One man had left a helmet hooked on a branch and it had a bird’s nest in it.

“Leshen,” Geralt snapped his fingers at Eskel. “Pay up.”

“No assumptions,” said Eskel. “I’m not paying you until we find the monster and kill it. Witcher rules.”

“What else would be able to do this,” Geralt gestured around them, “with the forest? It’s a leshen for sure.”

“Maybe.” Secretly Eskel was pretty sure Geralt was right. A leshen really would be the best culprit for the out of control flora, the abandoned feel of a camp that ought to be all but freshly vacated. “But in these woods? And where did the bodies go? Don’t rush off half-cocked, wolf, or you’ll find--”

“--your fur snatched and your meat cooked,” Geralt finished. Vesemir’s death was long enough ago now that the memory of him was only a sting instead of a stab, the pain of it outweighed by fondness. “All right, all right, I get it. But be prepared to pay up.”

“Sure.” Eskel waved at the south side of the camp. “Search for tracks?”

Geralt nodded, made one last sweep of the camp with his eyes, and left to scout the north.

Several hundred meters away Eskel found traces of deer and foxes. There was a single wolf track preserved in mud by a rocky outcrop, but nothing too interesting. Just as he was about to move on, Geralt whistled. High-low-high.

He kept a wary eye out as he headed for the origin of the whistle, but didn’t spot anything out of place. Geralt’s silver hair shone in the dappled sunlight as he approached, crouching at the root of a tree.

“Found the bones,” Geralt said.

The tree roots had formed a small burrow that extended underneath the trunk, and it was filled with what looked like coarse, dirty sand. Eskel scooped up a gloved handful. The material shifted easily, ground well although there were still the occasional chips of bone the size of his fingernail.

“What the fuck,” said Eskel.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” Geralt agreed. “The trees around this one have them too.”

“If it’s more than a couple of trees, the bones can’t all be from recent kills.” Eskel spread his fingers and let the bone powder rain through the gaps. “Not enough material. Unless we find out that the rest of the body parts are being used too.”

“What, the meat?” Geralt’s mouth twisted. “I don’t think that would make good fertilizer.”

“Still thinking leshen, huh?”

“It makes sense. Meat for animals, bones for fertilizer. All helping the forest, its place of power.”

“True.” Eskel sighed. “Could be a malicious magic user, too. Bone fertilizer? Seems like something a human would come up with.”

“Have you seen any sign of human habitation? Anything at all?”

Eskel had to admit he hadn’t.

“All right, we’ll go with the assumption it’s a leshen, then. Or at least a close relative. If that’s true, we must be close to its lair. It wouldn’t go through the trouble of helping out just any random patch of forest.”

“So what,” Eskel stood up with a grunt. “You think the trees are marking a perimeter?”

“Could be,” Geralt agreed. “The fertilized trees aren’t in a cluster, more of a line.”

Eskel frowned. “It’d take hundreds of bodies to mark out an area of any decent size.”

“Better check, then,” said Geralt.

They did. Eskel wasn’t sure whether he was relieved or even more unsettled when they found that only five trees had been fertilized with ground bone, all in a wobbly line.

“Not a perimeter,” he concluded. “But what the hell is it for? Are we actually right at its lair already, or something?”

“Maybe it’s... the offering place,” said Geralt. “Like when villagers would sacrifice people to ancient leshens. There was always a place they took them that the leshen liked.”

“You think anybody is sacrificing people to a leshen out here?”

“Well we already know this is an unusual leshen, don’t we? You got any better ideas?”

Eskel wrinkled his nose. “Nope. Fine, you want to make ourselves bait? Scream a bit? Bleed? We’ve already been pretty obvious walking around.”

“Blood might do it. But I was thinking of just burning these trees.”

“Using your brain.” Eskel pointed at him. “I like it.”

Geralt snorted. “If we’re using our brains, we should prepare. We already know the terrain, given we’ve been scouting -- oil our blades, prep any potions, and then start?”

Eskel judged the position of the sun. “Yeah. Better to fight before it gets dark.”

He and Geralt settled down. Neither of them needed to brew anything new, thankfully, so they each sorted through their travel bags and placed what potions they needed on their belts. Eskel knelt to oil his sword, stripping off his gloves and unrolling the protective leather strip with its stitched on pouches, each bottle tucked in with its corresponding oiling cloth to avoid cross contamination. He chose the relict oil and doused the cloth liberally before applying it to the blade.

After he finished he scrubbed his hands with dirt and wiped them on his trousers before pulling his gloves back on. A glance over at Geralt showed him waiting patiently.

“Ready.”

Eskel eyed the space. “Everything’s still pretty wet. Don’t think we need a firebreak.”

“Mm,” Geralt agreed. “Igni?”

“Get some branches for torches, too. Don’t want to tire ourselves out.”

It turned out to be a good idea. Igni didn’t take, not with all the recent rains, and in the end they had to douse a couple of fallen branches in alcohol and sacrifice an extra pair of shirts to get a decent blaze going. As the first tree went up, the sound of wildlife quieted and the sunlight through the leaves seemed to get colder and darker.

Geralt and Eskel drew their swords as something emerged from the shadows.

“What,” said Geralt, “the _fuck_ is that.”

If the monster was a leshen it was like no leshen he had ever seen. Instead of a humanoid being made of plant matter and a mask of an antlered skull, a hunched misshapen conglomeration of wood lurched out of the trees. For a face it wore a bleached wolf skull, fangs long and yellow. It looked almost like a werewolf.

“I have no idea,” said Eskel. “Hope the relict oil still works.”

That was all the conversation they had time for. The misshapen leshen arched, raising its bone-clad head as if it were roaring before it charged. Here was another difference between it and normal leshens: it was _fast_. 

Witchers weren’t trained to fight in groups. It was assumed that they would be alone on the Path, left to live -- or die -- by their own skill with the blade. But Geralt and Eskel grew up together, trained for years side by side under the same masters, so they at least knew enough about how the other would react to keep out of one another’s way.

And they needed to. The monster healed over as they struck at it, roots bursting out of the soil any time the leshen wasn’t in contact with their blades, adding to the bulk of its body or lashing out at the two witchers. Oily energy seethed around its limbs and took the shape of crows even as real crows rose out of the trees and circled overhead, cawing. The first time Eskel cast Igni it flinched, but the small flame that caught was smothered immediately by a writhing root.

Geralt and Eskel fell into a rhythm, darting in and out to constantly barrage the leshen with slices of their silver swords: Geralt staying in close to give Eskel time to work up a stronger Igni, Eskel casting fast Yrdens when he could to try and slow the lethal movements of the monster. The damage they dealt was small and slow, but their attacks were working.

Until the leshen sank into the earth and disappeared.

“Fuck!” Eskel swore. They should have expected it. Normal leshens traveled that way in short bursts to help maneuver, but this leshen was so fast physically he didn’t account for the more arcane movement. He whirled to stand back to back with Geralt.

“See it?”

“No.” No dark wisps of smoke, no disturbed earth, no crows. Had it retreated?

The trees shook. 

This time what emerged temporarily robbed Eskel of speech. A wolf twice the height of a man, made entirely of wood but for the single wolf skull embedded in its chest. It held a rusted spear in its tail arched over its back like a scorpion. Crows circled its head in a shadowed crown and perched cawing on its back.

“Oh, that’s not even fair,” said Geralt.

“Look on the bright side,” Eskel suggested, recovering from his shock. He changed his grip on his sword and judged how the wolf construct moved.

“What fucking bright side?”

“There’s no actual wolves,” said Eskel. “Small mercies.”

“Hrgh,” said Geralt, and then the wolf-leshen attacked.

Just as in its first form, it moved deceptively fast, rushing them with its head down to try and bowl them over. Eskel and Geralt dodged in opposite directions, Eskel rolling in a sideways leap and slashing at one paw as it swept past. He heard a whistle of movement from above and cast Quen blind, only to realize a second later that the leshen tried to stab Geralt with its tail spear as he deflected it with a sharp _ting!_

They had to re-evaluate their tactics quickly. Fighting the enormous wolf was more like taking down a grounded cockatrice than a leshen, except it had no vulnerable wings and preferred running charges and leaps instead of claw swipes. It was taller than them, stronger than them, and faster in straight-line movements; they had to out-maneuver it in close quarters, constantly casting Yrden and Igni and Quen to slow it down and protect themselves from stray blows.

As Eskel flicked his fingers in the Igni sign again, scorching a patch on the leshen’s hind leg, the whole construct shuddered.

“What did you do?” he shouted. It had to have been Geralt; Igni hadn’t affected it like that before.

“The wolf skull,” Geralt shouted back. Eskel caught a glimpse of his hair as he dodged the leshen’s giant jaws, his blade a streak of light as he hacked at the leshen’s neck. “Think it might be a weak point!”

Worth a try, Eskel thought. He parried a swing of the tail spear and was nearly thrown off his feet from the whiplash momentum of the blow. His Quen shield shattered under the impact of the monster’s kick as he staggered, and he cast it again as he recovered his footing.

Just in time. The monster rounded on him and he ducked underneath it as it tried to knock him over with a sweep of its head. He saw that the wolf skull embedded in its chest had a piece missing, the top fourth sheared away along its eye socket.

Eskel cast Igni straight up. Embers fell around him like rain, sheeting off his Quen as the leshen reared up, startled. As it came down again he judged and struck, splitting the wolf skull cleanly in two.

One half shattered. The leshen roared, sounding like the crashing fall of a dozen trees, and made a prodigious leap to land twenty meters away.

A fourth of the skull was still on the monster’s chest. It didn’t, or maybe couldn’t, merely wrap the remaining bone in a wooden shield, despite how it regenerated damage on the rest of its body.

The wood under its control did seem to be negatively affected by the loss. Instead of the clear wolf shape it adopted previously, now branches stuck out of its joints and along its back, roots splayed out like spikes around its massive paws. It also seemed to move less smoothly, and the crows nearby spread out to surround it in a cawing black swarm.

“Think you can smash the rest of the skull with Aard?”

Eskel hissed air between his teeth, sucking it in between the mangled scar tissue of his lips. “I’ll have to, won’t I?”

“Don’t get killed,” ordered Geralt.

“Same to you,” Eskel shot back, and they _moved_.

Eskel let Geralt take the lead as a distraction. The leshen wasn’t leaping around and charging at them any more, but it didn’t have to; the crows battered them with their wings, feathers whipping through the air to obscure their vision, and the writhing roots and branches of the monster crashed with deadly force as it trampled around in circles, attacking with a mindless fervor. Quen was a lifesaver, protecting them from being blinded by crows or speared by a lucky piece of wood.

Even with that protection Eskel took an ugly gash to his shoulder. Geralt shouted in pain as well but he couldn’t see what happened -- the leshen was at the perfect angle, and in that crystalized half-second he flung his hand out to cast the most powerful Aard he was capable of.

The skull fragment was _pulverized_. The leshen screeched in pain, branches whipping every-which-way, and Eskel beat a quick retreat. By the time he’d gotten to a safe distance the monster’s thrashes had subsided, the crows spiralling away in a clamor to reveal what looked like nothing more than a particularly old, knotted up and twisty tree. Wooden detritus, feathers, and dirt were scattered around it as evidence of their battle, but the tree itself looked completely ordinary.

“Geralt?” said Eskel.

“Ugh,” said Geralt, and limped into view. It looked like he’d been stabbed lightly in the thigh; the blood was still oozing, but not gushing. Missed the artery, then.

“...I’m not paying you for this,” said Eskel. “It _does not count_ as a leshen.”

“Fair,” Geralt wheezed, starting to laugh. “Completely fair.”

*

They bound their wounds and limped back to Monte Crane, Geralt swallowing his pride and leaning on Eskel despite the Swallow they both drank. Even a witcher’s potion-assisted healing required a couple of days to regenerate a branch through the thigh.

The weird leshen -- Uber-leshen? Were-leshen? He and Geralt weren’t sure what to call it -- hadn’t left a body behind except for the tree. They burned it, just to be safe, and collected the pieces of wolf skull from the forest floor for a trophy. 

Ciri visited again the next morning. She exclaimed over Geralt’s wound, helped apply a compress to the healing gash on Eskel’s shoulder, and expressed her sympathies that she couldn’t just portal them back to Corvo Bianco.

“I’m not up to bringing more than a single person along,” she explained apologetically. “I could manage two trips with passengers, maybe, but Roach and Scorpion are out of the question.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Geralt told her gruffly. “We’ll spend a day or two here and move out once I’m healed. Eskel will take care of me.”

“All right,” Ciri agreed. “And I’ll see if the imperial library has anything about what you encountered. I wonder if it’s some sort of… ancestral leshen, like higher vampires. A higher leshen, if you will. More powerful, more versatile. Smarter.”

“Don’t know about smarter,” said Eskel. “Its tactics weren’t much to write home about, for all that it was a bitch to fight. I’ll give you the power and versatility, though.”

“Wonder if it could take on different shapes,” said Geralt. “Or if the shape it _could_ take on was tied to the skull, somehow.”

“Maybe it’s the other way around,” Eskel suggested. “It turns into a wolf shape, so it finds a wolf skull.”

“Maybe.” They just didn’t know enough to be sure. This was going to be a shitty writeup for the bestiary logs.

“Send me a letter when you get back to Corvo Bianco,” Ciri ordered them before she left. “I won’t be able to visit before the survey -- I’m pretty sure my aides have every day scheduled in five minute increments until we set out. But I want to know you got back safe. And I’ll send word if we find anything in the libraries!”

She disappeared in a blaze of green light.

Geralt and Eskel settled in silence. The downtime after a large monster fight was always tiring, no matter how experienced the witcher, and they all had their own ways to cope. Eskel liked to whittle. He would make a rough little figurine and throw it in the fire after he was done, or give it to a child who wasn’t afraid of him. Geralt, because he was a nerd, liked to read or prep potion ingredients.

The sun was low in the sky when they spoke again after eating a warm dinner.

“Hm,” Geralt said, frowning at the dirt on his hands. “You want to heat water for a wash?”

Mont Crane still had a functional well. It wouldn’t be much trouble to bring up a bucket or two.

“Sure,” Eskel agreed.

A full bath obviously wasn’t worth it, but they could boil water and mix it steaming to run hot washcloths over their bodies, scrubbing away sweat and grime. They stripped naked, confident that nothing could sneak up on two witchers.

When Eskel hissed as he twisted to try and pat the gouge along his shoulder blade, Geralt wordlessly took the washcloth from his hand and moved to stand behind him. Eskel relaxed, letting Geralt run the cloth along his skin with gentle movements, tilting his head down to expose the nape of his neck. Geralt washed more than just his shoulder: he ran the cloth all the way down his spine, up to his hairline, massaging tense muscles and tracing tenderly over scar tissue.

They kissed when he was done, and Eskel returned the favor. Geralt sat on a cloth-covered crate by the fire, his injured leg extended to allow Eskel to clean around his wound. He moved upwards until the cloth left shining trails over the sharp cut of his hip, water pearling in the silver hair low on his abdomen.

Eskel watched as his cock filled out, rising to stand along Geralt’s belly, and ran the washcloth teasingly everywhere but where Geralt wanted it most.

“Really?” said Geralt. “You’re gonna do this to an injured man?”

“This piddly little stab wound?” Eskel shot back. He tapped the skin above the injury and watched the sensation ripple through Geralt, leg hairs rising. “That’s nothing.”

“It’s enough,” Geralt growled.

Eskel leaned forward so that Geralt could feel his breath. “If it’s ‘enough,’ you should stay still.”

Geralt’s fingers flexed against the edge of the crate, abdominal muscles jumping. After a moment he nodded.

Eskel dipped his head down. With his scar he couldn’t make a seal with his mouth, but he and Geralt had figured out a way around that long ago. He licked up Geralt’s cock, getting it wet, grazed his teeth along the tip. Cupped Geralt’s balls, rolling them in his palm before squeezing _just_ to the edge of pain, until Geralt’s deep inhales cut with the edge of a whine.

“You bastard,” Geralt hissed. Eskel glanced up. Geralt had his head tipped back, the tendons on his neck standing in stark relief, jaw clenched. He licked again, tasting the salt and bitterness as Geralt leaked. He always got so _wet_.

When Eskel said so, Geralt growled at him. He hummed around Geralt’s cock in his mouth, feeling with satisfaction the way he jumped on his tongue and how the muscles of his calf twitched under his grip. He was drooling now, messy and perfect as Geralt got close and his hips started to rock in tiny aborted thrusts, too overwhelmed to stay still, and Eskel started to hum. Geralt made a soft, strangled noise low in his throat.

Yeah. _Yeah_. Eskel worked his tongue harder, relaxed his grip around Geralt’s balls only to squeeze more ruthlessly immediately after, and grazed the straining skin of Geralt’s cock with his teeth. Geralt came shaking, groaning out obscenities through gritted teeth.

Eskel swallowed what he could and let the rest spill over his chin, pulling back to grin at Geralt’s dazed stare.

“Bastard,” Geralt said again, low and satisfied. “Get up here.”

They kissed, Geralt licking in deep to taste himself on Eskel’s tongue. A shudder ran down Eskel’s spine as Geralt hooked his uninjured leg over his hip and pulled him in, moaning softly as Eskel pressed against oversensitive flesh.

“We’re gonna fuck up your wound,” Eskel said into Geralt’s mouth.

“Do I look like I care?” said Geralt. “Fuck me.”

 _“I_ care,” Eskel said, and pulled back. Geralt rolled his eyes. “Don’t give me that, you’re not the one who’ll have to listen to your bitching on the ride back.”

“I’m the one who’ll have to ride with an injured thigh,” said Geralt, but gave in easily enough when he saw the expression on Eskel’s face. “All right, all right. Come here.”

His tone was brusque but his hands were gentle, nearly reverent. Fingers rough with callouses tickled down his neck, traced over the swathe of scar tissue spread over his left pectoral, stroked over his hip until Geralt finally closed them over his cock. The drag of skin was gritty, nearly too much, but Eskel’s orgasm hit fast anyway.

He leaned his forehead against Geralt’s and panted as he came down from the high.

“...You’re gonna heat up the water again,” said Geralt eventually.

“Oh, fuck you,” said Eskel.

“Hey.” Geralt smirked. “I’m _injured_.”

Eskel smacked him on the hip. Geralt wiped his soiled hand on Eskel’s stomach. There was a short poking war, Eskel going for Geralt’s ribs and Geralt going for Eskels armpits, before Eskel nearly elbowed Geralt in his injured thigh and they called a truce. The second round of washing occurred in comfortable silence.

“Wolf.” Eskel brushed their hands together as they put out their bedrolls, a glancing touch of pinky to pinky. Geralt looked at him with his pupils wide in the dark. “Good job not dying out there.”

“Same to you,” Geralt replied after a pause. He brushed their hands together again, then leaned his sword against his shoulder as he laid down. A witcher’s security blanket. 

Eskel smiled and closed his eyes, listening to Geralt’s breathing as he fell into meditation.

**iii.**

“Stop fidgeting,” said Eskel out of the corner of his mouth.

“It’s this fucking doublet,” whispered Geralt. “It’s stiff _and_ itchy. I don’t fucking know how, it’s not even new.”

“Suck it up,” said Eskel, unsympathetic. He was dressed in a doublet too, and he wasn’t complaining.

“Oh yeah, very nice,” said Geralt, and then had to shut up as they were announced.

“Sir Geralt of Rivia! The witcher Eskel!”

Eskel paced Geralt as they walked forward, shoulder itching where he should have felt the weight of his blades. Of course, they couldn’t go armed to the welcome banquet for the Imperial Nilfgaardian survey. Not that that stopped them; Geralt had a knife in his boot, and Eskel had one hidden at the small of his back. Witcher caution.

“Your Grace,” Geralt nodded, then turned to Ciri and bowed. “Ciri.”

The Nilfgaardian guards bristled until Ciri gave a subtle hand signal. 

“Geralt,” she replied warmly. “Not even at my welcoming banquet, huh?”

“It’s to keep you humble,” said Geralt. “I bet everyone in Nilfgaard is falling over to lick your boots.”

Ciri laughed. “Not _everybody_. And hello, Eskel, it’s good to see you too.”

“Your Imperial Majesty,” said Eskel. And then, more warmly, “Looking good, cub.”

“Thanks,” said Ciri. “We can’t talk much now, but don’t worry. We’ll have plenty of time on the road.”

“On the--oh no, you can’t be serious.”

“Oh yes,” said Ciri sweetly. “Get used to that doublet, Geralt. You’re going to be wearing it for a while on the survey.”

“I didn’t raise you to be like this,” said Geralt.

“Guess it’s Father’s influence.” Ciri grinned. “Take care of him, Eskel, and make sure he doesn’t run off into the night, will you? I want to spend some time with the both of you.”

“You got it, cub.”

“It’s armor or nothing,” said Geralt.

“I’m sure many people would appreciate seeing you in nothing,” said Ciri, and waved at the announcer as Geralt sputtered. “Next!”

Eskel laughed silently at him as they walked away. He knew that Geralt knew he was doing it.

“Shut up,” said Geralt.

“She’s not wrong,” said Eskel.

“Hrgh.”

Eskel laughed at him silently some more. Geralt tried to trip him into the dessert table, and they had a secret kicking war under the tablecloth as they ate. It was the most fun Eskel had ever had at a formal banquet, and judging by the way the corners of Geralt’s eyes crinkled he bet the same was true for him.

As he leaned back in his chair with a full belly, in the company of his favorite person in the world, he sighed. This was the life.

**Author's Note:**

> \- You have no idea how many times I misspelled gd Toussaint. I kept writing Touissant. UGH.  
> \- Giant wolf leshen inspiration was taken from Dark Souls. As was the mid-bossfight transformation, haha.  
> \- I have never actually finished Witcher 3 and idk if it shows, but *waves hand* whatever, I do what I want.  
> \- Geralt and Eskel are two bros who when in close proximity share braincells and those braincells go down by half, no I will not be taking questions at this time.
> 
> \---
> 
> plingokat @ twitter


End file.
